


Bone-Deep Grateful

by Batesk7551



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cliche, M/M, Scott is Perceptive, Scott's POV, Witches, i tried to make it angsty, maybe angsty until the very end?, spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8750368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batesk7551/pseuds/Batesk7551
Summary: Stiles looks like a skeleton. He's dying - everyone can see it - but Scott refuses to watch his best friend slipping away by the second.





	

Stiles is splayed out on one of Deaton’s cold steel tables. He’s pale, eyes closed and body limp.

Scott thinks back to all the sleepovers they’ve ever had. Not once has Stiles ever managed being still, even in sleep. Always twitching, always moving, always with flailing limbs taking up as much space as humanly possible. There was always snoring or drooling or mumbling under his breath. There was always _something_.

But this Stiles was quiet. Not a sound, not even the rustle of breath. His skin was cold and clammy, and he seemed small in a way that Scott never imagined Stiles could be. Usually, Stiles takes up the room with his noise and laughter, with his presence. But now . . . .

Deaton examines him, pulling back an eyelid and checking for responsiveness. Derek is the only other one in the room. The rest of the Pack is off tearing the witch who did this into a thousand tiny little pieces - or at least, that’s what Scott hopes they’re doing, because that’s what _he_ wants to be doing, except he can’t leave his brother here alone in this stupid sterile room with the smell of antiseptic and metal.

“It’s definitely a curse.” Deaton murmurs. “His pupils are responding fine and he doesn’t seem to have suffered any trauma to the head, or anywhere else for that matter, but he’s getting worse by the minute.”

“Well, fix it, then!”  Scott demands.

Deaton, patient and measured, says, “I would if I could, but I am unfamiliar with the exact nature of this curse. I would need to research it to have any hope of finding a cure.”

“How long would that take you?” Derek asks gruffly, speaking for the first time since they’d gotten here, Stiles draped heavily between them.

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Scott, barely able to contain his desperation, is ready to get down on his knees and beg. “There’s gotta be something. You’re a doctor, there has to be something.”

Deaton shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Scott. Trying to cure him without knowing the exact nature of the curse may only result in speeding up whatever’s making him sick. I would rather not take the risk.”

Scott takes a deep breath, centering himself. “How long do we have? Until - ?”

“A few days. A week, at best.”

“You’ll search, right?” Scott means to make it a question, but it comes out as a command. “Every moment you have, you’ll search for the cure?”

Deaton nods solemnly. “I’ll try.”

* * *

 

The first day passes with no new information. The entire pack has gone through every book in what remains of the Hale library, even Peter. Deaton is still working through his own library. Lydia and Jackson have gone to join him while the rest of the pack tries to figure out what to do. They’ve been up all night, anxiety and fear souring the air.

“What now?” Erica asks.

Peter scowls up at her from where he’s leaning over the kitchen table, weight resting on his arms. “If you hadn’t killed the witch, we could have had our answer by now.”

“She wasn’t going to give us any answers, “ Isaac defends. “She was pretty clear on that in between all the hexes she’d been throwing at us!”

“That’s why you should have captured her, you nitwit,” Peter growls. “Of course she wasn’t going to talk on her own; that’s why torture exists.”

Derek sighs. “Peter, you can’t suggest torture for every evil thing we meet. We don’t know if it would have worked anyway.”

“And you didn’t consider it might have been worth it to try?” Peter’s words are harsh.

Erica looks near sobs. Her mascara is already running from where the first few tears have escaped, but she’s still putting on a brave, angered front. “Like you actually give a crap about Stiles, anyway.”

Peter’s eyes flash dangerously, so Scott intervenes before anyone gets their throat torn out. “Hey! Stop that. Erica, Peter’s helping us, for once, so maybe shut up and accept it? And Peter, I don’t care what your motivation are as long as we save Stiles, but you need to keep your head on.”

Erica was right. Peter’s sudden desire to be involved in _helping_ the pack rather than watch it struggle from the sidelines is new and unexpected, but Scott was desperate enough not to question it.

Peter stalks away from the table to pace the creaky wooden floors of Derek’s loft. As he passes Derek, the younger werewolf reaches out to stop Peter with a hand on his shoulder. They say nothing, but something of significance is exchanged. There’s a look of realization and understanding breaking out on Derek’s face, and then it’s gone, replaced by Derek’s usual stoic mask is back in place.

Scott wants to question it, but he has more important things to worry about.

“Let’s search again. There must have been something we missed.”

* * *

 

By the third day, they can barely keep their eyes open.

They are gathered around Stiles, choking on silence. Erica looks destroyed, clutching at Stiles’ hands. Boyd rubs her back, trying to comfort.

Scott knew Erica and Stiles were getting to be close friends, but he hadn’t realized through all their banter and teasing jokes that Erica had come to care for Stiles this much.

Scott’s not surprised. Maybe he’s a little biased, but Stiles is like that - Scott’s best friend can be annoying and blunt and rude and hyperactive, but he was the greatest friend you could ask for.

* * *

 

“Allison.”

It pains him to talk to her. She’s been avoiding him, dodging his calls and texts, but Stiles _needs_ help, even if it comes from hunters.

“We need your help,” he says. “Is your dad home?”

Chris hears his story out as Allison makes herself scarce, hiding up in her room. Scott wants to go up there with her, bury his tears in that comforting place where her neck meets her shoulder and the smell of her is strongest, soothing and comforting and everything right in the world.

But she doesn’t want the same, and he’s running out of time.

Chris promises he’ll search every bestiary he’s got, clapping his hand sympathetically on Scott’s shoulder.

He looks for Allison at her window once he’s outside, but there’s no one looking back.

* * *

 

“Her coven.” Peter says on the fifth. “I found it. It’s not in Beacon Hills but we can make it there and back in a day.”

“Okay.” Scott exhales, trusting Peter at his word. “Let’s go, then.”

He and Peter take Melissa’s car, with nothing else but two spare changes of clothes, because neither doubts that things will get bloody, and their wallets for any gas stops they need to make on the way.

Last minute, Erica slams her way into the car. Boyd isn’t with her. Scott doesn’t doubt she’d planned it out that way; now Boyd couldn’t stop her.

Neither could he nor Peter, despite their protests that she should stay behind.

“Fuck you,” she replies. “I don’t give a shit about why you don’t want me here. I’m coming and you’re going to shut up about it.”

Peter lobs an insult at her. Erica responds in kind, and they both seem to feel better, insulting each other, as Scott hits the gas pedal and speeds out of Beacon Hills.

* * *

 

It’s dark by the time they get there. Peter leads them to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. Scott doesn’t know how he even found the place, but going by the amount of time Peter spends looking at the rearview mirror, back in the direction where they left Stiles, the older werewolf wouldn’t have stopped for anything in his search for them.

Scott doesn’t say anything about it, choosing not to make himself a target for Peter’s acerbic tongue. He’d leave that for the witches.

Peter, Erica, and Scott find the them, three women and a man, all middle-aged - one of them reminds Scott of his own mom - sitting on the floor, surrounding a single lighted candle. They look up as the three werewolves come crashing into the room, door flinging back into the wall. Their faces are lined with sadness and they don’t look like they want a fight, but Peter grabs one by the shirt collar and slams the woman in his grasp against the nearest wall anyway.

“You know why we’re here?”

The other three witches are up in a flash, frozen, arms out as if they could do anything to stop Peter.

“Yes!” The one up against the wall yelps. Peter shakes her roughly.

“How do  we fix him?”

The man says in a tremulous voice, “It’s a true love’s kiss curse.”

Scott holds his breath. “I’m guessing his best friend or father don’t count?”

The witch shakes his head. “I’m sorry. The entire point of the curse was about true _romantic_ love. Lisa must have used it because it’s such a difficult curse to break - especially for someone so young.”

Scott withers again.

Peter drops the woman in his grasp and stalks out of the room, expression blank. “Come.” He directs at Scott and Erica.

They don’t argue with him. Erica finally breaks down and shakes under the weight of her sobs.

Scott’s just hoping that Peter is enough.

* * *

  


They burst into the clinic. Deaton is pouring over a book. He looks unsurprised at the racket they bring with them.

“Derek and Lydia are already waiting with Stiles. His condition seems to be accelerating faster than expected. You’ll need to hurry.”

Peter sweeps into the room. Scott and Erica walk in after him, feeling like worried puppies trailing after their mother.

Peter stares down at Stiles, who's grey pallor makes him look gaunt and skeletal. He reaches out and cradles Stiles’ head in both hands, gently.

Lydia catches Peter’s sleeve and tugs, as if she could pull Peter away, asking, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Scott shakes his head at her. Surprised, she relinquishes her grasp, hand lowering back to her side.

Peter bends over and presses his lips to Stiles’.

He stays there. The kiss is chaste, just a press of two pairs of lips together, but the whole room feels like it’s crackling with electricity. Lydia’s mouth is dropped open in outrage, but she remains speechless.

Peter pulls back. There’s less than an inch separating the werewolf and Scott’s best friend.

Stiles doesn’t move.

Erica’s sobbing into Scott’s shoulder. He wraps an arm around her, trying to stifle his own desire to wail.

Scott watches as Peter leans down again, and then again, and then again.

Nothing.

Peter exhales through his nose, sets Stiles down gently, and turns away, trembling in rage and grief. Looking at him now, Scott is reminded of Peter when they’d first met. There’s that same glimmer of loneliness, less buried now that there’s no madness lurking in Peter’s eyes.

“That kiss woulda been hella better if I didn’t feel so much like crap. I demand a redo.”

“Stiles!” Erica cries.

He’s still laying down, still pale enough that the blue of his veins shows through his skin, but his eyes are open.

Stiles half-smiles dazedly. “Fuck, Peter, come do that again.”

Peter does.

* * *

 

Stiles’ recovery takes nearly two weeks of laying in bed at home. He regains his strength slowly. By the end of it, Deaton declares him healthy enough to attend a pack meeting at Derek’s loft.

He walks in with Peter by his side, and spends the entire meeting leaning against Peter, half in the older man’s lap.

Scott makes a show of being grossed out by Stiles’ crazy relationship choices, but every single pack member can see right through his jokes down to the bone-deep gratefulness he feels.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is so cheesy and I'm not even sorry.  
> I hope you enjoyed. Tell me how you liked it in the comments?


End file.
